


Is It Really So Damn Hard To Be Kind?

by LuxaLucifer



Category: The Wolf Among Us
Genre: Gen, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-23 09:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6112084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuxaLucifer/pseuds/LuxaLucifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is this the justice of Fabletown? Does Bigby Wolf really expect her to believe that?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Is It Really So Damn Hard To Be Kind?

****9:23 P.M.

Holly’s fingers are stained with blood, her eyes narrowing as she threads the bone needle in and out of ruined skin, memories of a different life resurfacing so she can remember how to cut away the sinew and useless tissue to pull a flap of skin over the missing arm.

Gren is crying, quiet tears streaming down his face as she administers to him, the big wracking sobs of earlier over with. He is too tired to scream his pain anymore, instead letting it knot in his chest. She is grateful; this way it is easier to stitch him up.

She doesn’t know what to say, she never knows, so she just sews. When she is finished she brushes sweaty hair out of his eyes with bloodied fingers. He doesn’t seem to mind. He doesn’t really seem to notice.

The Woodsman is here, although she’s not exactly sure where here is. She remembers telling him to fuck off a little while ago, because honestly what’s the point of letting him standing around? She knows it was only a matter of time before Gren realized he was there and said something he’d secretly regret. But he’s in the building. She can hear things getting smashed in that way only the Woodsman can manage.

“Gren,” she says. “For what it’s worth…”

He shakes his head. “Don’t fucking bother,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ve been here before. I’m fine.”

Her hands are coated in his blood, his detached arm a few feet away with a sheet over it, and he is telling her he is fine. The worst thing is that she thinks he really believes it.

11:31 P.M.

She orders him to take a nap. You need it, she says. Trust me, you need it. He listens, or pretends to, and curls up on the cot in the back. She will have to wash the bloodstains out of it on one of the rare days Grendel goes home. The bar always feels so empty then, but she never tells him that. Even Fables suffer from alcoholism, and even Fable bartenders care. It isn’t good, all the time he spends at the Trip Trap, he’s slowly but surely being crushed under the weight of his drinking, it’s just taking centuries instead of years.

She lets out a shuddering breath as she lights a cigarette. The Woodsman has reappeared and sits in his usual seat at the end of the bar. He is quietly drinking, looking at her nervously every few seconds.

She ignores his obvious desire to talk and walks past him to the back room, pushing the door open slowly to try and prevent Gren from waking. It isn’t needed; he’s sitting up, staring blearily at the opposite wall with the kind of focus he usually reserves for the inside of a bottle.

“I thought you were going to be sleeping,” she says.

“It hurts too much,” he says. “Got anything to drink?”

She swallows. “I have some mundy painkillers. Let’s get you some of those.”

When she comes back with the pills he hasn’t budged an inch, not even to wipe his hair out of his eyes. The pomade has made it stick up in several places, but he doesn’t seem to care. Hasn’t all night, really, despite his normal preoccupation with combing every strand into place.

“Here,” she says, and he grabs the pills from her, twisting the cap off with his teeth. He downs the whole bottle in one go. She lets him; they had a fun night a few years back where they experimented with over-the-counter mundy drugs, seeing how many it took to have an effect on the glamoured Fables. As it turns out, the answer is a lot.

“Fuck Bigby,” mumbles Gren.

There’s no bite in it, no hate. He sounds so tired. She reaches down and gives him a one-armed hug, gingerly avoiding his new injury. He doesn’t react to it but she doesn’t mind; she knows him well enough to understand.

“Rest up,” she says. “Or whatever it is big scary monsters do.”

“You should know,” says Gren, shooting her a smirk as she closed the door behind her.

2:51 A.M.

“I can’t sleep!”

Holly and the Woodsman are interrupted from their talk (it hasn’t been a conversation, really, only exchanged questions and reassurances that Gren would be fine, he always is) by Grendel, bursting out of the side room with a vengeance. He is wild-eyed, even the hairs on his head bristling as he stands there, feet wide apart, his one hand raised in the air as though he is only a moment from breaking and fighting someone. Maybe he is.

“I can’t fucking sleep! I give up!”

“I wish I was more surprised,” says Holly. “Okay, big guy, if you can’t sleep, what to do want?”

He shoots her a withering look. “What do you think I fucking want? A goddamn drink, that’s what.”

She is taking out shot glasses even as she says, “I don’t think you’re supposed to mix alcohol with mundy meds.”

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

He plants himself on a barstool and pounds the bar with his fist, hand slamming against wood. She shoots him an irritated look and slides him a shot of whiskey. He downs it and shoots her a grin. She returns it with a small smile, the best she can manage. It hasn’t been long at all since Gren was screaming as _that wolf_ was ripping his arm off tendon by tendon. She wonders if there’s enough liquor in the world to help her forget that.

He looks over at Woody. “What’re you up to, lardcakes? Want some?”

The Woodsman sighs. “Do you have to call me that, Gren?”

Gren laughs, more wildly than he would have any other night. She knows he isn’t that drunk. “I call you what I like to call you. You couldn’t take me.”

He probably can now, Holly thinks, but she doubts Grendel will ever admit that to anyone. Perhaps he doesn’t even realize it.

The Woodsman shakes his head. “Drink your booze, Gren. You deserve it tonight.”

“It’s been a long night and it ain’t even half over,” says Gren. His tone is light, but he watches Holly pour another shot with a kind of desperation that makes his eyes shine.

Gren raises the glass in the air with his left hand. “To karma.” He drinks it before Woody or Holly can even reach for their drinks, and she wonders it if isn’t a toast as much as an offering.

5:33 A.M.

Gren isn’t even aware of the tears on his cheeks as he drinks. He has been going for hours now and gotten quieter with each one. She doesn’t know what else to do but hand them over. She feels like it’s the wrong choice but she has no idea what the right one would be. Woody is trying to keep a conversation going but falters every other sentence, his words slurring. Woody has not noticed that Gren is crying either.

“You gotta pour my shots from now on,” mumbles Gren, his gaze fixed on the picture of Kay behind her. “I can’ do that anymore. I mean, I can, but you always yell at me when I spill. Nevermin’, I’ll do it. I won’ spill it, I promise.”

She bites her lip. Is this the justice of Fabletown? Does Bigby Wolf really expect her to believe that?”

Gren’s glass is empty, and he pushes it forward. She knows one more will knock him out. She fills it without a second thought. He drinks it and slumps down on the bar, snoring in minutes.

She pulls the jacket off him and dumps it on the bar, examining his stitches. They are holding together fine, some of the least damaged areas half healed already. They teach Beowulf in schools, she hears.

She carries him back to the cot and dumps him on it, hoping that the mix of booze, meds, and pain will net more sleep than it takes.

She sighs and pulls a chair over, lighting another smoke. She’ll wait.

7:20 A.M.

“It’s too late, er, early for me, Holly,” says the Woodsman. “I’m gonna get going.”

“Okay,” she says, wondering if she sounds as exhausted as she feels.

The Woodsman stops. “God,” he says. “I asked Bigby to stop. I asked him.”

“I know you did,” she says.

There’s something in Woody’s expression she can’t identify. Maybe it’s the beard. Maybe she isn’t as good at reading humans as she thinks.

“Take care of him,” he says. “I know he thinks I don’t care, but…just take care of that asshole, okay?”

“It’s not like anyone else is here to do it,” she says with a wan smile. “I’ve got him, Woody. Don’t worry about it.”

He nods slowly. “I wish there was someone who could take care of you.”

She shakes her head. “I like it better this way. Good luck out there, Woody. Keep away from the wildlife.”

He chuckles and waves, heading out. Holly stands there and takes a deep breath, swallowing her exhaustion, her tears, the pain the night brought her. She’s been through worse than this, and Grendel needs her.

10:45 A.M.

“Stop fussing over me! It’s fine, you know me, I’ll be all healed up in a couple days.”

Holly sighs, because this stupid man is her best friend but damn is he stubborn sometimes (all the time, really). “You’ll be healed,” she says. “And you’ll be without an arm. Have you realized that yet?”

“I came from the Homelands without an arm,” he says, and her eyes widen slightly. He never talks about that journey, the escape from the Adversary, how he stumbled into New Amsterdam with his own limb in his mouth, begging for it to be reattached even as his new injuries bled. He signed the Fabletown charter with his right hand, she remembers, the stitching so new that Swineheart was ordering him to stop even as he did so.

“You weren’t human,” she says. “You didn’t live as they do. Humans have two hands, and they’re not kind to the ones that don’t.”

He knows she has a point and his mouth tightens. “It’s not like people here have a history of being kind to me. I’ll be fine.”

“Here? Have people anywhere ever been kind to you?” She hears herself ask the question and regrets it instantly.

He sucks his breath in. She cannot tell whether he is angry or hurt. She thinks the latter would be far worse. “No,” he says. “I didn’t deserve kindness for a long time.” He has only just woken up and he already sounds so exhausted.

“You do now,” she says. “Gren, you didn’t deserve this.”

She isn’t sure he believes her, but still, she’s glad she said it.

2:29 P.M.

Her bar sees a lot of traffic at night, but during the day it is her and Gren. It is always her and Gren. They drink together and sometimes they talk together. Nothing is different today except for the empty sleeve.

7:10 P.M.

“Jack fucking Horner, get away from my arm.”

“There isn’t an arm there to get away from, Gren!” says Jack, cackling as he avoids Gren’s swing. “I just came in for a drink, the fuck is your problem?”

Holly wants him out. She rubs her eyes and wishes she could just throw him out the way the damn Sheriff might, but her earnings for the month aren’t that great and Jack drinks as much as he talks.

“You came in to piss me off,” growls Gren. “Congratulations, it worked.”

Jack can tell that Gren isn’t in the mood, so he rounds on her. “That’s fucked up shit, you know. Fucked up shit, the way the Sheriff thinks he can come in and beat up law-abiding citizens like us. Fabletown law only stands while we let it, what do you say?”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” says Gren. “Not a bad idea at all.”

Holly knows nothing bad will come of this, believe it or not. She knows what Jack is doing. He is trying to rile Grendel up, trying to get him to do something stupid and maybe lose the other arm. But she knows him better than that. He is stubborn, not stupid, and full of hot air far more than he thinks he is. She lets him purge his bitterness.

“You have nothing to lose, right? I mean, look at you!” says Jack, and she clenches her fist.

“Shut the fuck up, Horner,” she says. She can’t just let this play out after all. “If we get a posse together you certainly won’t be in it.”

Gren smiles as he looks at his glass, and she’s glad. Jack begins a new tirade, asking for darts. She hardly listens; her mind is elsewhere.

Then the Sheriff walks in, and things change.

9:23 P.M.

She ignores the arm around her shoulder, trying to hold herself together so Snow White will have nothing to use against her, nothing to pity her with, because damn if she isn’t tired of pity. But she’s tired in general, isn’t she? It’s been a day- or slightly more or less than one, she can’t remember- since she sewed up Grendel’s arm. The nightmare never ends, except this time it has taken Lily. Nightmares aren’t supposed to be able to do that, but this is Fabletown, and anything can happen.

Gren is waiting outside the bar when she returns. The wind has picked up, and his sleeve is flapping. “Holly,” he says. “You okay? Is everything okay?”

“No,” she says. “Yes. I don’t know. We’re going have a future.”

Gren nods, reaching across her and squeezing her shoulder, trying to communicate kindness in one of the few ways he knows how. She chokes back tears. Not in front of Snow. Gren enters the bar ahead of them, but when the door shuts behind him his sleeve is trapped. She opens it for him without a laugh, and he waves her off.

“I’m fine,” he says. “You’re more important right now. You’re more important. I’m fine.”

She believes him because he is right, this is more important, and her chest has been ripped open by an enemy worse than any she ever faced at any bridge. Grendel doesn’t think twice about it, not then, not ever, and when the day comes that she realizes this, it means everything.


End file.
